vacuum.

Children.

I have never had any desire to have them. Ever. I view having children as the end of one's life. Once you have them, there are no more late nights. Your body droops and sags, your hormones run rampant, and you become undesirable to most men without kids of their own. Plus, in addition to needy people everywhere else in life--clients, parents, friends, siblings--you are now fully responsible for creating and releasing your very own human being into society.

But now I'm at the age where a "party" isn't an all-night bar crawl. It's sitting around a friend's living room because she can't afford a sitter--and since her child is there, all her other friends are welcome to bring their own. So there I am-- Holly in a room of mothers, all of whom are asking me if I have a boyfriend and when I'm going to have one of my own. If I say I don't want to, they insist that I will change my mind. I guarantee that I will not.

Am I less of a woman for this, I wonder? They wipe spit-up and baby poo off themselves like it's lint. They don't flinch when their child screams. They have entirely civil conversations with peers and then break out an angry disciplinary voice. Is that who I'll be? I have to be honest: I really hope not.

Photos of you and your baby are on the wall. Photos of the baby's daddy are there, as well. You and he live in the same apartment and have shared a life together for over six years, but you sleep in separate beds. Still, you tell me you aren't with him; that you've been broken up since August.

But when he comes home, you tell him hello. You're still having sex with him and no one else. You go on family outings. You make him dinner. Like it or not, you're living the American dream. Maybe one day you will make peace with this. Until then, I will support you in your insanity, even if no one else will. I get you. I'm not ready to live the American dream, either.

Silence

About three days ago, you stopped texting me. You haven't called since before the last time I actually saw you. I don't know if your'e done because I have done something wrong, if the sizzle has already fizzled, or if I'm simply overreacting. But dammit, I feel like I deserve to be chased a little. I feel like you should want to talk to me. Others do; they keep texting, calling, visiting, even kissing. You don't. You see me once a week and seldom contact me otherwise. Are you seeing other women?

Maybe that's the only reason you still interest me. You're mysterious and hard to catch; this entices me. I also know that it will be over any minute. You've lost interest, and this only makes me want to savor what I fear will be our last few outings even more.

Still, out of many choices, I want you. Kind, smart, successful, funny; a good person whose goals and views I actually admire. Please don't be done. Until you make up your mind, I will be sitting with my phone in one hand and head in the other, staring, hoping, and feeling forlorn...

Impoverished and hungry, I sat down tonight and ate a can of spinach for dinner. I did this because it was all I had. With $24 in my checking account and $118 due to my car insurance ompany before I get paid again, purchasing more, different or better food is simply not an option.

Eating my spinach, I thought about how I ended up in this situation. The root cause of all my frivolous spending, my self-indulgene and my misery always traces bac to a man. Without my previous fiance, I would theoretically not have had the opportunity to spend the $12,000 my grandmother left me in less than six months. Without the disaster-ogre that followed him, I would have saved thousands of dollars on groceries, going out to dinner, cmaping and camping gear, and unappreciated gifts. Even The Fling is partially to balme; $150 wasted on him and his family after just two months of casually seeing one another.

Without these men in my life, who never seem to give as much as I do, I realize that I still wouldn't be wealth. However, I would't be disowned, miserable, and eatig canned spinach on my broken futon after obtaining a professional degree. I wouldn't be staring at a TV for which I cannot afford cable, nor pondering how I will entertain myself when I read all the boks on my bookshelf.

Fuck the men; let's drink to us.